“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”
Those ancient words from the Sermon on the Mount offer a vision of a just and compassionate world. Mercy isn’t weakness; it’s strength rooted in empathy. It’s a refusal to let our politics, fears, or prejudices harden our hearts. Mercy is a revolutionary choice, and in this moment, we are witnessing the stark contrast between mercy’s call and its rejection.
The day after President Donald Trump was inaugurated, Rev. Mariann Edgar Budde, the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, gave a sermon to the President, Vice President, and their families that felt like a balm to the nation’s frayed soul. She spoke of mercy not as a sentimental feeling but as an act of courage and solidarity. She called on us to embrace mercy as a political ethic—a way to heal the divisions in our country. Her words reminded us that leadership rooted in mercy can guide us toward justice and reconciliation. They painted a picture of what politics at its best could look like: service to the common good, motivated by compassion for the most vulnerable.

But just days after listening to Rev. Budde’s call to embrace mercy, Donald Trump has chosen to ignore them. Today, he proposed withholding federal disaster aid to California unless the state enacts voter ID laws. Let’s be clear: this isn’t a policy decision rooted in good governance or fiscal responsibility. It’s a cynical exercise in coercion designed to punish a political rival while advancing an agenda of voter suppression. Mercy would have looked like offering aid unconditionally to a state ravaged by wildfires, regardless of political differences. Mercy would have prioritized the human lives at stake over partisan power games.
This contrast is more than an academic exercise—it’s a reflection of our nation's soul. Mercy, as Rev. Budde reminded us, creates space for solidarity. It is the willingness to see someone else’s pain as if it were our own, to respond not with judgment or calculation but with generosity. Mercy doesn’t ask whether someone deserves help. It asks, “How can I help?”
On the other hand, Trump's decision embodies the politics of retribution. It weaponizes pain and suffering for political leverage, pitting people against each other in a zero-sum game. This approach is not only antithetical to Jesus' teachings; it is profoundly destructive to the fabric of our democracy.
We all must wrestle with what it means to embody mercy in our politics. Mercy doesn’t mean abandoning our principles or ignoring injustice. It means grounding our advocacy in love for our neighbors, even those who disagree with us. It means refusing to mirror the cruelty of those who seek to divide us. Mercy is not passive; it’s active. It’s a commitment to meet the needs of the hurting and to transform systems that perpetuate suffering.
Blessed are the merciful. But mercy isn’t just a blessing; it’s a calling. It’s a path forward in a divided nation—a way to rebuild trust, community, and the common good. The question is whether we dare to walk that path.
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